Mistress Pullen opened it herself, and seeing him, put her finger to her lips.
Blueneck stood still looking at her, very disappointed and a little foolish. Inside the cottage he could hear deep rafter-shaking snores and soon understood that the lady’s husband was within. He opened his mouth to speak but Amy shook her head violently and he shut it again with a snap; however, he did not move, and Mistress Pullen had to push him off the door-step and whisper, “This evening,” before he fully realized that he was not wanted. Fumbling in his pocket, he hastily found the ribbon, and snatching it out crammed it into her hand, then tiptoed off down the path feeling that he had been cheated.
Amy took the parcel without looking up and quickly slipped back, shutting the door carefully behind her.
Blueneck returned along the way he had come, in a much less cheerful frame of mind than when he started out. He no longer whistled but lurched along, his head bent and his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
On passing the Ship sounds of cheerfulness came out to him through the open door and, yielding to the impulse of the moment, he went in.
As usual the scene in the Ship kitchen was cheering even to look at. The roaring fire in the open grate, the glinting lights on the pewter, and the shadowy, dusky corners in which faint outlines of casks and strings of drying onions could just be distinguished, all gave it a cosy, comforting appearance. At least Blueneck thought so as he joined the circle round the fire and called for hot rum to be served to him.
Old Gilbot was in a lively mood; he sat in his corner, his blue eyes twinkling from out huge creases of fat, singing, laughing, and drinking with the best will in the world, and keeping the company in a continual roar of laughter.
Big French sat on the other side of the fireplace, playing with little Red Farran and his kitten. The little boy was a favourite of the big man and they chatted together with an equal share of enjoyment.
Sue leaned over the back of the seat, and from time to time joined in their conversation. At these times French smiled contentedly and almost as easily as he did on the days before the little dark-eyed white-handed Spaniard landed east instead of west of Mersea Marsh Island.
Anny and Hal were talking together in the background as they polished up the tankards. She was telling him about the Spaniard’s desire to rename the brig, and clearing away with her gentle cajolery all his little jealous fears and doubts.